


Overboard

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce invites Clark to a cruise on the Wayne pleasure-craft, where he has to spend a weekend watching Bruce do his thing. It may be more than he can take. </p><p>This is the first part of a larger work, but it can be read as a stand-alone, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overboard

"You hate my boat."

From his vantage leaning against the aft rail, Clark surveyed the magnificent floating pleasure palace nudging them through the swell at a stately half-knot an hour. The early morning sun bounced off the polished wood and bright white paint, but the awning shielded them from too much glare, where they stood. "I think it's more of a ship," Clark said. "Isn't it big enough for a ship?"

"She," Bruce corrected. "And since she carries a lifeboat, I guess you could call her a ship. But it feels so formal. I don't think she'd like it."

Clark gave a thin smile. "I hope more than one lifeboat, considering how many guests you've got crammed on here."

Bruce cast an eye over the deserted decks. "Wouldn't know it this morning, would you. It's a good thing they're sleeping it off, I guess."

"How about you? Don't you need to get some rest? You were doing some pretty heavy partying yourself last night, I seem to recall."

Bruce was showered and shaven, but from the slightly bloodshot eyes it was clear he hadn't gone to bed yet. "I will in a bit. But I figured this might be our only opportunity to talk without suspicion. Did you hear anything last night?"

"Not a thing. I'm sorry, Bruce, I hate to be honest here, but I'm afraid you may have yourself a boatload of modestly corrupt politicians, businessmen, and B-listers looking to enjoy themselves. I didn't hear anything that would lead me to think one of them is in contact with a Horrvangian invasion force."

"Keep listening," Bruce said grimly. "But listen fast. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Well," Clark said. "You didn't seem to be having a bad time last night."

"If I seemed like I was having a bad time, that would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

"Sure. I didn't mean—never mind. I was just wondering, not that it's any of my business, but. . . you know. Is it all an act?"

The eyes might be tired, but they were still keen when they glanced at him. Clark tried to keep his question casual-sounding, just two friends enjoying the morning breeze on deck. They had had five years to get to know each other, five years in which Clark had come to feel there wasn't anything about Bruce he didn't know. He had never been around someone who knew him from the inside out, the way Bruce seemed to; someone who didn't require explanations, someone whose thoughts kept pace with his, whose dry sense of humor matched his own. Someone with whom he could sit in easy silence. He had thought about it, once, a few years ago—trying to pin down what it was in Bruce that made him grin to see that number pop up on his cell, that made his whole chest lighter when they were together. 

Well, besides _that_. It wasn't like he was stupid, about what the name was for that. That one, he recognized. But it was the other feeling he was unfamiliar with, and when he realized the name for it was _friendship_ , he had been taken aback. He had never had a friend. Pathetic as it sounded, it was the truth, and it had been as much his own design as anything: keeping other people at a kind and careful distance seemed like the safest thing for them, and for him. 

Until Bruce.

"Depends what you mean by act," Bruce said. They were leaning on the rail together now, looking out at the spreading light on the water. "If I were trying to sell you a used car, that would be an act. But being an asshole partyboy—it doesn't require as much reach as you'd think."

"A used car, huh. You ever bought one of those in your life?"

"No." Bruce looked at him, and Clark laughed, and Bruce's tired mouth quirked in a smile. 

"All those new cars and fancy boats—sure helps with getting dates, apparently." Clark kept his voice light, and was pleased with his success. There was nothing in his voice of the gut-crunching shock of what he had seen last night. Nothing in his voice about what it had been like to walk into that crowded stateroom where the bar was, and hear Bruce's deep distinctive laugh over in the corner, and see the beautiful young man straddling him, and see Bruce pull the lovely blond head down for a long kiss. Clark had watched Bruce's jaw work like he might be about to swallow the young man whole. He had had at least three inches of his tongue down the other man's throat. Clark had been rooted to the spot.

And for the life of him, this morning, he couldn't say it. Couldn't find the casual words to say, _so hey, we've never talked about this, and not that it's any big deal or anything, but do you. . ? Are you. . ?_

_Would you?_

Bruce was stifling a yawn. "You're probably right," he said. "Three nights into this cruise, you would have picked up on something, if any of these idiots was our guy. We'll dock this afternoon in St. Lucia, you can hop off there and go home if you want. Sorry to drag you out here."

"It's been interesting," Clark said. Bruce was looking at him. 

"Three days of this life about all you can take?"

 _Three days of seeing you like this is about all I can take_ , he wanted to say. Another day and he might be in danger of forgetting who the real Bruce was. He wondered if Bruce ever had that difficulty. "Something like that," was all he said.

"Probably for the best. People are already starting to wonder why I've got a reporter hanging around. Bad for your cover, and for mine."

"Right," Clark said, but Bruce had gone stiff and alert.

"Dammit," he muttered, and Clark caught the firm step of one of Bruce's favorite tormentors: Miguela von Something-Whosenwhatsit. She had buttonholed Clark for a good twenty minutes the night before, trying to work out of him what exactly he was doing on board, and who he might be planning on profiling, and how exactly did he know our darling Brucie again? Her suspicions would go through the roof on seeing the two of them talking on deck this morning, while everyone else was sleeping.

"I'd better get out of—" Clark began, but Bruce grabbed his wrist.

"Better plan," he said, and sealed his mouth to Clark's.

So, all right. 

All right, then.

A number of things to catalogue: to begin with, the small startled exhalation and quickly retreating staccato heels of Miguela-Miranda-Melinda von Schlossenfloppit. And then—

And then.

Oh, and then.

His hand was on the back of Bruce's neck before he knew he was going to put it there. Bruce's mouth was musky and sweet and his tongue would not stop moving, and it was everything he had—everything he could almost just—

Bruce had pulled off, and was just standing there, an inch from him. His eyes were abstracted, like he was listening for something. And then they were back on Clark's. "Coast is clear," he whispered. But he didn't move. Clark's hand was still on the back of his neck. Bruce couldn't possibly be waiting to see if he. . . what he. . .

He bent his head in, just a fraction of a fraction, and then Bruce's lips were meeting his again. Not quite like before. Gentler, a bit more hesitant. It was maddening. Beautiful. He was beautiful. Clark groaned, and ran his hands along Bruce's jaw, tipping it, and he could feel something like a jolt of electric current shiver through Bruce's body. Bruce's hips were pushing into his. 

Bruce pulled off again. He did that thing where he stood with his eyes down and to the side, and Clark realized he wasn't listening, he was thinking. "Don't stop," Clark whispered, and Bruce's eyes were wide and. . . incredulous, somehow. Bruce's lips were back on his, kissing him, as hungry as Clark. Their hands were doing this thing that could only be described as groping. 

"Is there any chance," Bruce said, low and just for him, "you would like to come inside with me."

"God," Clark moaned. "I. . ." And then nothing, because he had no idea, of course. 

"Come on," Bruce said. Bruce was grabbing his wrist again, leading him. They were walking calmly and purposefully inside, down a set of stairs, straight to Clark's cabin. Bruce stopped in the hallway. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that mine is. . . occupied."

"Oh," Clark said. His feet had stopped moving. 

"No," Bruce said. "Nothing like that. I wasn't—it was—other people, not me. It's why I didn't go to bed, because they were—it's not that."

"Okay," Clark said softly. But somehow he was still standing there.

There was a muscle that jumped in Bruce's neck. He was watching Clark. And then he shut his eyes, just briefly. "I'll go back upstairs," he said. "I'm sorry if I—"

Clark put his mouth back on Bruce's. He kept a hand on Bruce's jaw, steadying it. Bruce made a small noise as Clark kissed him. "You never said," Bruce was whispering, in between, when they would come up for air. 

"And what was I supposed to say?"

"This, would have been good." Bruce had him backed into a door that, mercifully, was his. Clark opened it and they more or less fell through, still attached at the lips. The click of the door sobered them. Clark was shrugging off the jacket he had pulled on earlier against the dawn chill on deck. He was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt when he realized he was the only one undressing, and what a huge and possibly insulting assumption he had just made, and also what an idiot he looked like. He pulled his shirt back together. 

"Um. . . I didn't—"

Bruce's hand knocked his away. He was just looking. He was looking at Clark's chest, and then he was looking at Clark's eyes. He didn't say anything for a long minute. 

"I'm just trying to figure out," he said eventually. "If instead of the harmless drugs I thought I was taking last night, I somehow ended up with some of the really good ones."

Clark smiled. Suddenly there was a hand on the side of his face, like Bruce was trying to caress the smile. "I don't care," Bruce said. "If I'm hallucinating, it's the best damn hallucination of my life. I really could give a fuck, right now."

They were back to kissing, and then they had backed onto Clark's narrow bed. There were deft hands finishing his shirt, and then Bruce's shirt was off, and he was running his hands over Bruce's bare back, and Bruce was grinding down into him.

"Christ, fuck," Clark gasped, and Bruce's grinding picked up pace. "Oh God."

He could feel, could actually feel, Bruce's cock. It was definitely hard. It was rubbing against him, and he was going to—it just felt so good. He dug a hand into Bruce's ass, and tried not to caress it too much, but it just felt so incredible, everything felt so amazing. He wasn't aware that he was shifting them until after he had done it. He was on top now, and he had Bruce's wrists pinned, and he was grinding down into him like some awkward high-school make-out.

"Sorry," he whispered, because that was possibly more aggressive than he should have been, but there was this _flush_ all over Bruce's face, and his lips were parted, and his hips were _rolling_ up into Clark's, and holy God, he was aroused. Bruce was aroused. He had done that to Bruce.

On a hunch he pressed Bruce's wrists down even harder, immobilizing him completely, and Bruce made this sound—this _moan_ , was the only word to describe it.

And that was when Clark knew he was going to come.

Not twenty minutes for now, or ten, or five. He knew he was going to come.

"No," he groaned, trying to stop it. 

"Come on, fuck me," Bruce panted, and Clark ground into him so hard, their cocks were pushing at each other, the hard ridge of Bruce's cock was heating him through both their pants, and Clark was about to come in his. Clark gave up and rode him. It felt too good.

"I'm sorry," he panted. "I'm sorry, I'm gonna—oh _dammit_." He had let go of Bruce's wrists at some point, because Bruce's hands were clutching at his ass, pushing him in more. "Bruce, I'm sorry, I can't stop, I have to."

"Yeah," Bruce groaned, like that was okay, like that was what he wanted, and Clark just rubbed and rubbed until—

"Fuck—oh fuck."

"Come on beautiful, let go for me, that's it—

"Bruce," he choked, and turned his face aside and groaned his pleasure. He was soaking his pants, and he had a brief moment of gratitude that, after all, he had not gotten any of his clothes off but his shirt. It was just, there was so much come, more than a normal human's, and it would have embarrassed him for Bruce to see it. 

He collapsed on Bruce, and found there were firm arms around him, and a hand stroking his back and—Bruce was kissing the side of his face, it was so tender, Bruce was—

"What's happening," Bruce murmured, as Clark continued to shake.

"Noth—nothing—it just—goes on— _fuck_ ," and he gave up on words as the third round tremored his body. Bruce's arms were wrapped around him. He could feel it pulsing out of him in heavy hot gushes, but then the pleasure peaked and he cried out, louder than he had meant to, but he was on top of Bruce, Bruce's hard cock was pressing into him as he just kept coming.

So much for being grateful for clothes. Bruce was doubtless aware by now of the exact volume of Kryptonian come. There was no way he had not soaked through. As sharp as the pleasure came the wave of shame. 

Bruce was squirming underneath him, was the only word for it. "Please," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "Please, I need—" The look on his face was. . . definitely not disgusted. His pupils had widened to black, his breathing was perilously fast, he—dear God, he was turned on. 

Clark got a clumsy hand in between them, unzipping Bruce's pants with shaking fingers. "You. . . can I. . ."

"Please," Bruce whispered again. "Oh God please."

Clark suspected he was terrible at this, at the hand job part of this. But it didn't seem to matter—Bruce was practically levitating off the mattress, his heels were digging in so hard. "Clark," he groaned, almost as loud as Clark himself had been before, and then a short sharp inhalation, and he was coming. Clark was watching Bruce come, in his hand. Clark was watching Bruce quiver with it, lips parted, pleasure blitzing him. Clark had never seen anything more beautiful.

On impulse he leaned down and licked the springy tip of Bruce's cock, right where the last dribble of come was oozing out. "Ah— _ahhh_ ," Bruce moaned, twisting and panting as Clark licked. He was gripping Clark's head, probably trying to push him away, probably trying to tell him it was too much sensation, but Clark wanted one more taste before he let go. Bruce sank back, and Clark watched his breathing re-settle, tracked for a second the tide of his circulatory system, the delicate pyrotechnic display of his relaxing nervous system. 

"I'm sorry," Clark whispered, as he began to put together what he had just done. He was pretty sure your average high school sophomore on his first make-out date could have done better in the back seat of a pick-up than he had just managed. "That was. . . I'm sorry I lost control there."

Bruce's eyes were back on him, still dazed. "Yes," he said, licking his lips. "That was awful. I don't remember when anything worse has happened to me."

Clark gave him a look, but Bruce's eyes had slid shut, and he was still breathing a bit fast. There wouldn't be a better time to remove the sodden wreck of his pants, so he pushed them quickly off, trying to shove them under the bed so the amount of wet wouldn't show quite so badly. 

"What are you doing?" Bruce's eyes had gone from dazed to watchful in four seconds flat, and he was looking curiously at Clark as he leaned over, wrestling with whatever was stuck under his bunk. 

"Um—nothing. Sorry. Just—taking off my pants."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow at that. Clark gave up on the pants, kicked off his boxers, and re-settled. Only now he was a bit cold. It would be nice to be under the covers, but maybe he shouldn't suggest that. Also, he was now completely naked, and Bruce was still more or less fully clothed. 

"You're still hard," Bruce noted.

Clark made an involuntary covering gesture. "That's—yeah. Sorry."

"Come back next week," Bruce murmured, his voice sleepy, "when Clark Kent apologizes for breathing, eating food, and occupying too much space in the right-hand turn lane." 

"Now you're just being kind of a jerk," Clark said. "I'm cold, shift over so I can get some blanket."

"You live in a house made of ice," Bruce grumbled. "How are you cold."

"The same way other people are, I guess. Move."

"You're not people."

Clark stopped moving. "Fuck you," he said softly, and Bruce's eyes flew open. 

"Clark. I didn't—"

"It's fine. Just forget it."

Bruce was sitting up now. "I didn't mean what you think I mean, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. I don't. I—you know what, I think we should—can you just—"

He was standing in the middle of his tiny stateroom—Bruce had sure played his part well there, assigning the boring reporter the dinkiest below-decks quarters he could find—wearing absolutely nothing, and suddenly it felt worse than naked, and he reached for his open suitcase and pulled on a pair of sweats as fast as he could, avoiding Bruce's eyes.

"Clark," Bruce said softly.

"Can you—can you please just leave," Clark said. 

Without another word Bruce got up. He was the one who was almost entirely clothed, so he only had to stuff himself back in and zip up. He didn't forget to slam the door on his way out, though.


End file.
